


dispatches from toronto

by jetpacks



Category: Scott Pilgrim (Comics), Scott Pilgrim - All Media Types, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, M/M, there are various different tags that will pop up so! i will add them as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23797351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetpacks/pseuds/jetpacks
Summary: a collection of sp ficlets based on prompts, originally posted on my tumblr.
Relationships: Ramona Flowers/Kim Pine, Scott Pilgrim/Wallace Wells
Comments: 3
Kudos: 37





	1. "going somewhere?"

**Author's Note:**

> hello fellas here i am with another ficlet collection  
> iffff you wanna send me shit there are plenty of prompt lists buried in here: https://scollace.tumblr.com/tagged/writing - just make sure you send me the prompt along with the number.

What wakes Scott up in the end is the combination scraping and jingling noise of Wallace’s keys sliding off the bar. He’d been taking a nap- he’s been taking a lot of naps lately, sleeping at odd hours, which he doesn’t feel like unpacking- and apparently hadn’t heard Wallace showering and getting dressed in clothes that are probably, like, a million times classier than his own (he can’t tell; when Scott sits up, he notes that he’s facing away from him). “Going somewhere?” he asks, voice groggy, as he rubs one eye with the heel of his hand.

Wallace, with his hand on the doorknob, turns and says, “Oh, good morning, sleepyhead. Yes, actually; I’ve got a date.”

Scott blinks. “...A date?” It’s not exactly  _ surprising  _ that he’s popular with the guys, seeing as he brings them home on a fairly regular basis (usually having the courtesy to warn him beforehand), but, like… he never really pictured him going on dates. Why would he? Like, why would he think about Wallace seated across a candlelit table from another man, and… Shaking his head to dispel the thoughts, Scott says, “Um, congrats, man. Who’s it with? Do I know him?”

Wallace shrugs, saying, “Just some guy I met at a club a while back. I don’t see why you would know him.” 

Scott hums his acknowledgement, then says, “Well… have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Hey, picking up quotes from your mom is  _ my  _ job,” Wallace says. “Go back to sleep. Or, better yet, be productive for once in your life and clean the kitchenette.”

With a groan, Scott flops back onto the futon. “You suck! You know that?”

“Uh-huh, whatever you say, guy. Bye, now.” There comes the sound of the door opening, then, a couple seconds later, a  _ thunk  _ as it closes.

And then, for some reason, Scott isn’t feeling all too willing to be awake.

He’s already been conscious for a few minutes when Wallace arrives home, but the reopening of the door is what really gets Scott awake again. He stretches his tired limbs with a grunt, then sits up and says, “How was your date?”

“It was fine,” Wallace says as he hangs up his coat and scarf, but he sounds distracted, as if he’s not telling the whole truth. It’s not that he’s not good at hiding his feelings- in fact, it’s quite the opposite- but Scott’s known him long enough to be able to tell when he’s feeling  _ off...  _ sometimes, anyway.

“Um, is everything alright?” he asks. “You seem kinda…”

“I’m fine,” Wallace says again, though he still doesn’t look at him. “I promise. D’you want a drink?”

“I don’t drink, remember?”

“Oh,  _ right.”  _

Regardless of his lack of enthusiasm for drinking, Wallace plugs the blender in, and, with a noise that always grates on Scott’s ears, blends ice up with… whatever else is in a margarita; he’s not a bartender. Orange liqueur? Is there orange liqueur in margaritas?

In the meantime, Scott stands up, adjusts his wrinkled shirt, and approaches the bar. When Wallace is done with his hellish blending, he asks, “What’s the deal? Did you not drink enough on your  _ date?”  _ The words sound oddly bitter, and he resists slapping a hand over his mouth. What’s  _ that  _ all about? He’s not… bitter. He really isn’t! He… isn’t.

Having turned around to face him, Wallace raises an eyebrow and takes a sip from his drink. “Guess not,” he says. “I didn’t stay the whole time, anyway.” 

Scott tilts his head to the left, then glances at the clock. Sure enough, it’s only about eight, and, considering the travel time… “Why not?” he asks, stifling a pang of… something. Happiness? No, why would he be happy that Wallace’s date was a bust? He really does feel bad for him, right?

Wallace shrugs. “Just wasn’t feeling it.” 

“...Uh-huh,” Scott says. There’s definitely something up with him, but the guy’s not really one to vent. He knows he won’t get anywhere by pushing him, so instead, he says, “Should we just see what’s on TV, then? They’re probably playing something cool on Space.” 

“Sure, why not,” Wallace says, sounding less than excited. “Set it up, would you?”

Though he doesn’t particularly like being bossed around, Scott does so, grabbing the remote from the arm of the easy chair and turning on the TV with a dull click. When he gets situated on the futon, he’s expecting Wallace to sit in the aforementioned easy chair, but, to his surprise, he settles down next to him. He can feel his body heat, and it makes him… well, warm, obviously, but like… warm in a different way. A kinda… inconvenient way. This isn’t the time to be thinking about shit.

Wallace turns to Scott with an expectant look on his face. “...Space?” he reminds him.

“Ah, yeah, right,” Scott says, and flips the channel to said channel. There is, in fact, some sci-fi-looking movie on, and they settle on that, though it never really gets interesting.

And Scott thinks on it, and thinks, and thinks. And he realizes that maybe…  _ maybe  _ he’s glad that Wallace is seated here with him and watching some stupid hokey sci-fi flick instead of kissing on some faceless man that he’s never even seen, whatever that means.

What it means, dear reader, is this: he has feelings for Wallace.


	2. "it's late. shouldn't you be asleep?"

Ramona can tell when Kim wakes up. She’s never been a heavy sleeper- takes a long time to fall, too- so it’s no surprise when her breathing quickens beneath her head, kicking into consciousness like a kitten opening its eyes for the first time. Ramona’s glad to a degree; it gets lonely like this, staying up all night because she can’t sleep for overthinking.

Kim must have been reading her breaths, too, counting them for quickness, because, with a voice crackling with sleep, she says, “It’s late. Shouldn’t you be asleep?” She raises a hand to the back of Ramona’s head, fingertips brushing against the stands of lilac-dyed hair that’s getting longer every day.

“Yeah, probably,” Ramona says, somewhat comforted by the presence of said fingertips. “Dunno what’s up with me.”

“Feeling weird again?” Kim sounds like she’s on the verge of sleep again- idly, Ramona wonders why she woke up in the first place- but she seems to be making an effort to stay awake for the sake of answers, so she gives her one.

“I guess you could say that, yeah.”

“I could make you some tea or something.”

It’s a tempting offer; the tea’s not anything special- brewed in the microwave, even- but watching Kim’s back, her shoulderblades through the thin pajama shirt she wears, as she places mugs in said kitchen appliance is always a soothing experience. Besides, anything she can use as a distraction from herself would be nice. “That’d be nice,” she says, and sits up, regretfully tearing her head away from where she’d been resting it on Kim’s chest. Her hair, fluffed up a bit- bedhead- falls alongside her face, and she tucks a lock behind her ear.

“Alright. Gimme a second, then.” Kim’s voice is still groggy as she stretches her arms out in front of her, fingers threaded through each other, then lies there for a moment before sliding out of bed. 

Ramona follows her, feet tapping gently against the hardwood floor, past the black-and-white posters on the wall and down the hall to the kitchen. While Kim heads to the cupboard, she pulls out a mint-green chair from beneath the table and sits down on it, crossing her arms over each other and resting her cheekbone on the intersection so she can see her as she opens the door.

“What kind do you want?” Kim asks, not turning around to face her. “We’ve got… well, you know what we’ve got.”

Ramona shuffles through her options in her mind; she can’t summon the whole list from memory, but she knows she has… “Blueberry chamomile.”

“Got it.” Kim grabs two sachets from box in the cupboard and two mugs from the one adjacent, then fills the mugs partway with water from the sink- like Ramona said, nothing special. “And because you’re so special, I’ll make yours first.”

Ramona huffs a laugh, mustering a smile for the first time since Kim kissed her goodnight- she checks the clock- five hours ago. “You sure know how to treat a lady, Kim Pine. I knew I wouldn’t be able to enjoy you being sweet to me for too long.”

“Don’t you know?” Kim asks as she sticks Ramona’s mug- cream, with green and blue flowers on it- in the microwave and sets the power to half, then the timer for thirty seconds. “I’m an absolute terror.” 

“You sure are,” Ramona says, and manages to sit up straighter, crossing her arms in front of her chest instead as she leans back in the chair. “And yet, I’m still letting you live here…”

“You invited me!” Despite her sleepiness, here’s a hint of laughter in Kim’s voice; it’s a testament to the soft spot she’s got for her- Ramona’s well aware that, had she been anyone else, she would have already been stabbed to death for waking her up at ass o’clock in the morning.

Smiling in return, she says, “And I haven’t regretted it a bit… oh, except for when you tell my cat he smells.”

“He  _ does  _ smell, though.” The timer’s since gone off, and Kim’s covered the mug in a napkin as it steeps; despite it being made in the microwave- Ramona’s not sure why, but it feels so  _ primitive- _ the tea always turns out great when she makes it, and she supposes this kind of diligence is why. Kim leans against the wall next to the microwave, green numbers of the second timer ticking down beside her head, and continues, “I forgive him, though. He’s nice enough.”

“Gideon is a very sweet young cat,” Ramona says. The hair she’d tucked behind her ear falls against her cheek, and she pushes it back again. “He likes you a lot, you know.”

“I’m sure he does.”

After a moment of thought, Ramona pushes away from the table, wincing at the sound of wood against wood, then stands up and approaches Kim. She leans next to the wall next to her, not facing her but instead casting her eyes down at the floor, though there’s a smile on her face, and says,  _ “I  _ like you a lot.”

Kim snorts, amused, then says, “I like you a lot, too.”

As it always does, Ramona’s heart turns just a little lighter, a little warmer, a little more golden as Kim presses her lips to her cheek. Despite the instinct to run chewing at the back of her brain, that deep-seated fear of getting stuck in one place, she decides that maybe, just  _ maybe,  _ she can allow herself to get used to this.


	3. "can't you stay a little longer?"

Scott wakes up into a light-flooded room, sunlight sprawling across his face from the window next to the couch he’s lying on. It doesn’t feel like he’s awake- alive, even- but there he is, conscious, eyes begrudgingly open.

At the risk of sounding trite, he feels more dead than alive nowadays. Or… not exactly dead, but somewhere between dead and not dead, going through the motions of a living person- tapping at the buttons on his handheld, twisting the knob on the stove to boil water for boxed mac n’ cheese- but never really feeling them. He’s been here before, but it was stupid, apparently, to think that he’d never get plunged back into it. 

Scott’s lying there in his typical misery, barely awake and tempted to curl up in the dull teal blanket he’s draped over himself and go back to sleep, when there comes a clattering noise from the kitchen. Despite his previous fatigue, he bolts upright on the couch, heartbeat kicking up a notch, and sucks a deep breath in. Shit. What’s he supposed to do if there’s a home intruder? He vaguely recalls running a drill with his family, but that was over a decade ago; how’s he supposed to remember the specifics?

A voice cuts through his drowsy but panicked thoughts a few moments later: “Scott? Are you awake out there yet?”

Relieved beyond words, Scott flops back down onto the couch, which squeaks in protest at the impact. It’s only Wallace, thank God, although… that still raises some questions. “Wallace?” he asks, voice creaking like the floorboards of his childhood home- the one right outside his room, so he could never sneak downstairs for a midnight snack. “How did you get in here?”

Wallace steps into the living room from the kitchen, leaning against the wall opposite the couch. “You gave me a copy of your key, remember?” he says, not sounding too impressed. “I was going to make you breakfast, but if you’re going to act that ungrateful…”

Well, that explains a lot. “Make me breakfast?” Scott echoes. “I don’t even have anything to make. I’ve got… cereal.”

“Luckily for you, grocery stores exist. I got you some back bacon.”

“Peameal?” Scott’s voice- which he’d cleared the sleep from while Wallace was talking- is somewhat wary.

“Who do you think you’re talking to? Of course it’s not peameal. I know you better than that.” Wallace pushes himself away from the wall and walks back into the kitchen, presumably to check on the oil. Raising his voice so Scott can hear him clearly, he adds, “Now that we’re not living together anymore, I can finally have it again, though. So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Scott says weakly, finally shifting into a sitting position again. It occurs to him somewhere in the back of his brain that Wallace is kinder than he gives him credit for… but he’s still a bastard. 

...He misses having him around.

The bacon’s done within a few minutes, and, sure enough, there’s not a speck of cornmeal to be found. Wallace’s comment about knowing him better than that still lingers in Scott’s mind for some reason as he hands him his plate and fork; it  _ shouldn’t, _ because, yeah, they’ve known each other for… God, six years? Seven? Time’s sorta blurry- so he naturally knows him well, but… there’s just something about it.

As Scott muses to himself, Wallace, having sat down next to him with a  _ fwump, _ eyes him dubiously and asks, “What, is it bad?”

Scott blinks, somewhat confused, before looking down at his plate and noting the problem. While he usually digs into his food immediately upon it being served- he’s a growing boy! Or did that excuse only work in junior high?- he’s only taken one bite out of it, having gotten distracted by how much he… uh. Well, he doesn’t feel like unpacking whatever his Wallace-related emotions were just then. “Oh, no, um, it’s really good,” he says, and takes another bite to emphasize what he’s saying, which is decidedly not a lie. 

Wallace gives him that Look™ for a second longer before turning back to his own plate. Through a mouthful of bacon, he says, “So, I take it there’s been no progress on the ‘getting laid’ front.”

“Guess not,” Scott mumbles. “I told you I wasn’t good at it.” Truthfully, while he’s not sure he’d have managed to do anything- any _ body- _ if he had, he didn’t actually try. Why would he bother when all he wants is… is. Well. All he wants is Ramona, right? He does want Ramona. There’s a thought that he needs to finish there, he does want Ramona  _ but, _ he does want Ramona but _ also… _ Oh, whatever. He’ll figure it out sometime.

He sorta zones out for the rest of the meal, which mostly consists of Wallace updating him on his own life- things are going well for him, at least; holding down a job and a relationship, which Scott is patently incapable of- and is left reeling for a moment when it occurs to him that they’ve both finished their meals. 

As Wallace, who’s actually functional enough to recognize that he’s finished eating and has to go do whatever, gets his coat on, he says, “I put the leftovers in the fridge. Should last you a little while.”

“Wait, where are you going?” Scott asks, still loosely gripping his plate instead of setting it on the floor beside all the other shit he’s neglected to clean up.

“Believe it or not,” Wallace says, “I’ve got other things to do besides take care of you.” He folds his scarf, places it at his neck, and threads it through itself, adding, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Oh. Um, thanks.” Scott is silent for a moment, watching Wallace approach the door, before he asks, “Can’t you stay a little longer?”

Wallace pauses with his hand on the doorknob and stays there for a few moments before his fingers slip away from it. He turns back to Scott and leans against the door, crossing his arms, though he doesn’t look displeased. “Would you promise not to be a sad sack if I took you out?”

Scott considers the prospect. He’s not exactly a fan of the idea of getting out, but multiple people have pointed out that if he keeps marinading himself in his distress, he’ll waste away or whatever. Not that he’d object to doing so, but it’s getting on his nerves to have people point it out all the time. “I  _ guess,” _ he says, if only to get him off his back. He was able to get to Cameron House, so… it’d be bearable, surely. And Wallace would be there, which is what he wanted, right?

That gets a smile out of Wallace. “Get that ratty old parka of yours on, then,” he says, and turns toward the door again. “I can take you to C’est What.”

“It’s not even three in the afternoon, Wallace.”

“I didn’t say we had to get drinks, but I appreciate how much faith you have in me.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Scott says, but his face slips into a smile for the first time that day.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i love you!


End file.
